


Stuck in the City

by centrumLumina (centreoftheselights)



Category: Glee, Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Glee Club, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Crossover, Gleestuck, Humanstuck, Multi, Music, Polyamory, Terrible jobs, Terrible pay, city
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/centreoftheselights/pseuds/centrumLumina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, you used to have big dreams - but you dropped out of school and moved to the city, and now you're scraping along on minimum wage, wishing you could be somewhere else.</p><p>Then you walk into McKinley's, and everything begins to change.</p><p>A Glee/Homestuck crossover in a City AU. Knowledge of both canons not required.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kurt: Get Out

**Author's Note:**

> Occasionally when I am wondering through the dark back alleys of inspiration my muse will sneak up on me and hit me over the head with an idea.
> 
> I regret nothing.
> 
> This fic should be perfectly comprehensible to readers only familiar with one fandom, but if you haven't tried both I really recommend them. Tags will be updated as the story progresses.
> 
> \---
> 
> This fic is on indefinite hiatus and no longer updates. I may return to it in the future, but that is not guaranteed.

Your name is Kurt Hummel and you need to get out.

You aren’t quite sure of what, precisely, so you make a start by crawling out from under the covers. The cold air makes you grimace, and you race to pull on the nearest shirt you can find, but it’s too late and the precious warmth is already lost.

You check the clock – two p.m., otherwise known as too damn early for the third day straight you’ve watched the pale January sun rise with bloodshot eyes. You shiver as the coffee boils, and wish you could get out.

Your apartment feels stifling today. It’s claustrophobic at the best of times, and if there was anyone you ever wanted to invite over you wouldn’t dare to for fear one of you would stretch and crush the other. Of the three tiny rooms the kitchen is definitely the worst, with its counter strewn accusingly with unopened bills. Your shoes are on before you know it, and you’re out the door, coffee in hand, telling yourself you’ll grab a paper on the corner and look through the Wanted ads.

The sidewalk under your feet feels like pacing. Everything is still too close, too tight, and you want to leave. But where are you meant to go? You’re a twenty-two year old high school dropout with nothing to your name but a looming rent deadline, and you might hate it here but this town is everything you have.

You pass the corner shop and don’t look back. You wish you could ditch the coffee; it’s bitter in your mouth and caffeine is not what you need now. You feel overexposed, like everyone is watching you, but that’s ridiculous – everyone here keeps their eyes on the ground, and you’re nothing special. You’re invisible.

You stop.

There’s a bar across the street. You must have walked past it a million times without looking twice, but this time it catches your eye and you duck through the stalled traffic. It doesn’t look like your kind of place, but by some miracle it’s open and where else will be at two thirty in the afternoon?

The sign on the door says ‘McKinley’s.’

You go inside.

It’s warmer, inside a building where the heat isn’t perpetually on the fritz, and the shock of remembering comfort takes your breath away. That said, the place seems pretty miserable. There are more staff present than customers, and through a haze of smoke you see a small stage occupied by a guy with a Mohawk and a guitar, [playing soft and slow](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ccKzusBCZKc).

The blonde girl behind the bar has perfected the twin arts of the service industry: looking bored and sounding unimpressed.

“Welcome to McKinley’s, where the music never stops. What can I get you.”

You hesitate, remembering the rent due Monday, and perhaps that’s why you need this but it’s also why you can’t have it.

“Buy you a drink?”

A blonde head of hair slides into your peripheral vision, and you know he’s a douchebag from the way he’s hitting on a stranger in a bar in the middle of the afternoon, but it’s this or stay sober, so you nod before taking a good look at him.

You’re surprised, and not in a bad way. He’s your age, give or take a couple of years, and you can see muscles outlined through the weirdly abstract T-shirt. He’s wearing sunglasses indoors, though, and he’s paler than you are.

“No worries. Employee discount.”

The barmaid scoffs. “You don’t work here, Dave.”

“No, I just sit around all day looking pretty free of charge. Come on Q, this level of cool has got to be worth ten percent off.”

She shakes her head and walks away, disappearing through a door marked ‘Staff Only.’

“Nice try,” you commiserate, wishing you’d just bought your own. What’s the use in saving for the rent if you’re already short?

“Chill babe.”

“My name’s Kurt.”

The enigmatic Dave doesn’t reply. His expression is blank – it has been the whole time, flat and unresponsive, and the shades make it impossible to see where he’s looking. You wonder if Dave is some kind of vampire, but you can’t see yourself as the type to get ravaged by a handsome monster. You comfort yourself that if Dave does attempt to kill you, it could hardly make your week much worse.

“On the house.”

You look up in time to register a new waitress – blonde again, what is it with this place? – pushing two drinks towards you.

“You’re a godsend, Rox.”

‘Rox’ winks at Dave over her shoulder as she walks away.

You stare at the drinks. One looks like a beer; the second is some kind of cocktail, bright red and sporting an umbrella. Without a moment’s hesitation, Dave takes the cocktail.

It’s only when you take that first sip of beer and sigh that you realise the tautness you have felt buzzing inside you for days now is already gone. The knowledge hits you hard, and you straighten up. You hadn’t noticed yourself leaning forwards.

“Don’t tense up now, babe, fun’s just about to start.”

You barely have time to wonder what Dave means when the door is slammed open with a yell.

“Fucking hell, what pathetic excuse for a government introduced educational policies allowing out nation’s schools to hire the kind of dickbrained teachers who take school trips on the subway? Did I miss anything?”

By the time he’s finished talking, Rox has already handed the newcomer a beer, and he’s sat down beside you facing away from the bar. Dave turns his stool in the same direction, and you awkwardly follow suit.

“Relax, it’s only just half past.”

You realise they are looking at the stage. Mr. Mohawk has finished his set and is putting his guitar away, and some dark-haired guy in a cardigan and too much hair gel is adjusting the mic stand.

“Vantas, this is –”

“Some guy you’re hitting on because you’re the best boyfriend, Strider, it’s you. I know you have nothing better to do all day but some of us have actual jobs to worry about.”

“Excuse me, I –”

Your comment is cut short when a cough echoes from the microphone, and Vantas practically gives himself whiplash turning towards the stage. You don’t see what’s so urgent.

[And then he starts singing.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PxxGVjLNpek)

You don’t know what it is about him, but it’s something. You’re not even that into music, but you don’t want this song to ever end. You cut out all sounds but his voice and run your gaze over every inch of him, lingering on his eyes, his mouth, his hands – oh, his hands on the piano, gentle on each key as though he is nursing it back to health. Five minutes ago, you would have bet the dented case was more beer than wood, but now he’s touching it like it is precious and beautiful, and in this moment you are inclined to agree.

“So I –”

Vantas begins to speak, and you guess he’s attempting to mutter although the volume is still a hair above normal speaking levels. You shush him without thinking, the same moment Dave does, and out of the corner of your eye you see an approving nod before your attention is back on _him_.

You wonder if there is some way to kiss a person which doesn’t require them to stop singing.

When the song ends, there is one long moment of silence and every part of you aches. Vantas and Dave begin clapping – Vantas quick and enthusiastic, Dave slow and half-sarcastic – but you just sit there, frozen. No-one else in the bar is even looking at the stage, and the new love of your life takes his hands off the piano and begins leafing through his music.

“Blaine Anderson. The finest piece of ass ever to book the shittiest timeslot McK’s can offer.”

Vantas sighs. “Celibate.”

“Trust us, it’s not because no-one’s offered.”

“I’d say he was fucking straight if it weren’t for the bow ties.”

“Bow ties?” You’re a little short on breath, and your head is far too fuzzy for one beer, and suddenly you decide that bow ties are the best thing _ever_.

“Those bow ties are the shit.”

“Strider, if we’re done introducing your latest fling to the biggest daily miracle since the days when the buses ran on time, I’m trying to tell you I have to head back to work in approximately three minutes ago. This new guy Chang never showed so we’re one man down unless I can find a replacement in the next two minutes.”

“Kurt will do it.”

A part of you wants to object, to point out that they know nothing about you and for all they know you could be a billionaire, but you bite your tongue and remind yourself that you aren’t, you’re some loser in a bar while the sun’s still out, and this could be the difference between staying in your shitty apartment and sleeping on the streets.

Vantas looks you up and down.

“Kid, how do you feel about having your soul ground down into sand and used as the litter for a thousand snobby purebred cats who eat nothing but curry and boiled cabbage?”

You shrug. “Does it pay?”

“Minimum wage, and the boss is a terrifying alien hellbitch.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Vantas runs a hand through the black mess on his head, which has absolutely no effect on its overall appearance.

“Okay, fine, so –”

He falls silent abruptly as [Blaine begins to sing again](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c-3vPxKdj6o).

You take a millisecond to wonder over the song choice – because, really? The Beatles and Kelly Clarkson? – but then your mind is blank because he’s on his feet this time, and he can _move_. The song is barely danceable, but he leans into it, pulsing and swaying and clinging to the mic like it’s the only thing in this world that’s real, and this song might be cheesy as hell but you can see him meaning every single word.

You’re on your feet. For a moment, you think you just couldn’t help yourself, because your instinct is to move towards Blaine and never go away again, but Vantas was the one who pulled you off your stool and is tugging you towards the door.

“Fuck shit damn we have to leave now, get your ass moving.”

You follow reluctantly, looking back over your shoulder for as long as you possibly can. As you reach the door, you notice Dave, arms stretched out along the bar, finger tapping along with the beat, but head tilted slightly towards you – and then you are outside, with nothing but the echo of the song: “It’s not easy to tell you goodbye...”

Your bones ache like they are hollow inside.

You’re halfway to the subway station before you try talking. You consider waiting until you reach the subway – you’re struggling to keep up with Vantas, even though he’s a good three inches shorter than you – but it seems important to ask.

“Vantas –”

“Karkat,” he snaps. For a second you think you’ve blown it and in your mind you’re already back in your apartment wondering what went wrong this time, but he doesn’t say anything else, and you take a moment to slow your heart back to normal speeds, which isn’t easy when you’re half-running to keep pace.

“Karkat,” you repeat. “Where are we going?”

“Skaia.”

Clearly, V-Karkat doesn’t feel like talking, but you know the place. Everyone in town knows about that towering monstrosity – the first and largest of what was now a national chain of department stores. They price for the tourists and hire from the slums; working there is practically the definition of selling out – but right now, your artistic integrity is the last thing on your mind.

As you get on the subway and Karkat combines his continued refusal to acknowledge your existence with a sudden loss of his former tendency to monologue into a steaming heap of uncomfortable, you start wondering about ‘Vantas.’

You’re sure you heard Dave use the name – a nickname, perhaps? It might even be a pet name, if they really are boyfriends. Of course, boyfriends don’t normally hit on other guys or ogle bar singers together, but this city takes all types and if there’s one thing you’re sure of, it’s that neither of these two are normal. Besides, there’s something about the way they had moved around each other – as if you weren’t even there – which makes you certain they’re more than friends.

You hear a familiar tune, and realise Karkat is humming under his breath – the quietest sound you’ve yet heard him make. After a couple more notes, you identify it: the Kelly Clarkson song, and suddenly your head is full of Blaine’s voice again.

“I’ll spread my wings and I’ll learn how to fly.”

It had felt so _right_.

You realise you’re smiling at absolutely nothing, and force your expression blank again. It’s hopeless. You’ve never even spoken to Blaine. And apparently he doesn’t date. This is just some meaningless crush which will never get anywhere.

Your speciality.

When you reach your stop it’s cold outside, and you barely register that thought before you’re shivering violently. Fortunately, Skaia is less than a block away, and the store is so packed full of people that the heat is overwhelming.

You follow Karkat to the Help Desk, where a black girl with a fixed smile is talking on the phone.

“No, I’m afraid we cannot allow animals in the store unless they are registered guide dogs. Not even falcons. Even if they’re trained. I’m sorry sir, it’s against company policy. Thank you for your enquiry, have a good day!”

The second the phone is put down, she scowls at the pair of you.

“People are idiots,” she declares.

“Jones, we need a new uniform here.”

She glances at you with the most suspicious look you’ve received in a long time.

“What happened to Mike?”

“He’s a no-show, for all I fucking know the fish queen lured him into her lair and let her larvae devour him whole.”

She rolls her eyes. “What goes on the nametag?”

“Kurt...”

Karkat glances at you, apparently only just realising he hasn’t asked your second name.

“Hummel,” you supply.

“You didn’t _know_?” Jones hisses. “Did you pick him off the streets or something?”

“No, I picked him up in a bar.” Karkat’s voice is dripping with sarcasm, but she isn’t fooled.

“You actually did, didn’t you? She’s going to murder you. You are going to be the first person ever to get stabbed through the chest in a department store.”

“That’s probably not true,” you say automatically. They both look at you, incredulous and confused. “Black Friday happens every year.”

The girl laughs. Karkat looks at you and rolls his eyes, which is quite possibly the least aggressive action he is capable of performing.

“Jones. Mercedes. Queen of all she surveys, who rules the first level with justice and kindness to all. You can fudge the books. She doesn’t have to know. Think of it as your own personal contribution to our country’s unemployment rates and the delicate ecosystem which is my perfectly balanced emotional state.”

She pauses. “I’m listening.”

Karkat leans forwards. “Do you know who Abrams left McK’s with last Saturday?”

She shakes her head eagerly.

“Well, you will if we make it through this shift with a full complement of staff.”

“If he shits on the floor, you’re cleaning it up.” She glares at Karkat one last time, then turns to you, beaming. “Welcome to the team, Kurt Hummel.”


	2. Santana: Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now with HTML formatting and 100% more lesbians.

Your name is Santana Lopez, and you’re about to break.

As the last customer turns their back, you wipe the smile off your face. It’s fake, like everything about this job – fake smile, fake enthusiasm and fake boobs, all so you can sell some glorified fake tan for a price you wish you were making up. It’s pathetic, and you can’t believe anyone is stupid enough to buy it. Right now, they’re not – it’s just you and the plastic, shiny under fluorescent lights.

As good a time as any to go catch a bite to eat.

You head up the counter to your shiftmate. There’s not a customer in sight here either, but she’s still smiling at no-one, her eyes unfocussed.

“Hey, Georgina of the Jungle.”

She doesn’t respond.

“Queen of the Gophers. Hello? Earth to Planet Narcolepsy?”

You give up.

“Jade,” you say, as loudly as you can. She starts, and you’d say she looks confused but who the fuck can tell the difference with her?

“I’m going on break.”

“Um... oh, right! Okay!”

You turn away before you can catch sight of her smile, but just the sound of it is enough to make you wish there was a faster way of ripping off your uniform and getting back into human clothes.

You storm out of the locker room without a backwards glance, but as you cross the second floor of the 99.9% torture-and-despair hellhole which is Skaia, you can’t help but relax. You always do when you get close to her. She’s the 0.1% which is keeping you in this place, and as you see her finish with a customer, look up and smile back, your heart does something weird in your chest which is too much of a cliché for you to ever admit to.

“Brit. Dinnertime.”

“Just let me get changed.”

She leans over the desk and kisses you, and just a peck on the cheek makes you feel stupidly fuzzy inside, like a bowl full of kittens dyed pink by some tween bored crazy in the suburbs.

But then she disappears into the breakroom, you turn around, and the kittens are burnt away by a red-hot ball of anger. You stride forwards.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

She’s looking at the ground, but you know it’s her.

“Hey, Rochelle, or whatever your name was. I know you’re _new_ in town, but this is my patch, and you need to gee tee _eff_ oh.”

“Excuse me?”

“You see, Minimix, back in Smallville, Nowhere, being neighbours probably means baking pie or going carolling or something equally twee and cosy, but around here it means jack squat. And while you and your precious boyfriend Captain Pennyfarthing were stashing the enormous hoard of chipmunk fur you smuggle around on top of your head, one of you managed to back your fat ass into my windchimes, so now I’m going to need you to get the fuck out of my store and head right on back to Ohio.”

“But – what did I -?”

“Ready!” Brit reappears, beaming – but the smile’s at much in the direction of the stuttering bumpkiness as it is at you.

“Oh, you met Rachel! She just started on my shift!”

You turn to Brittany and force a smile. “Really? I heard she was just about to quit.”

“I’m so, so sorry, we didn’t mean to cause any damage -”

“What do you mean? Did you break something? Because they don’t make you quit, you just have to buy cheaper cereal.”

You realise you’ve managed to confuse her. “No, Brit. This is the girl who broke the pretty windchime you gave me.”

“Oh.” She looks sadly at Rachel. “I hope you get your Lucky Charms back soon.”

Rachel just stares at the pair of you.

“Excuse me,” you say after a moment. “Do you have some kind of problem?”

“No!” she yelps. “Goodness, no, I just –”

“Because if you have a problem with Brit here, I am going to have to show you how we do things downtown.”

Rachel takes a step back.

“I – please don’t.”

“Come on.” Brit takes your hand, and you look around at her hopeful face. “You said we could get pie today.”

You glance back at Rachel, and the sight of her still makes you stomach churn, but Brit is linking her arm through yours and pulling you away.

“Rach is really nice,” she says. “I hope she doesn’t have to quit. She must really like the little marshmallows.”

You sigh.

“She won’t have to quit,” you reassure her. “I just forgot how it worked. When you get back, make sure you set her straight.”

When you get outside, the sky is dark, but the streets are full of people – it’s the evening rush, and the post-Christmas sales are still drawing waves of cheapskate locals among the ever-present tide of slack-jawed gawkers. You try your hardest to ignore the crowd and shove forward, but Brittany lets go of your arm and when you turn back she’s drifting effortlessly in the wrong direction.

You push your way after her, but by the time you catch up it’s because she’s stopped, standing enthralled in front of some street performer. You’ve seen better. He’s juggling three clubs which aren’t even on fire, and the most notable thing about him is the clown facepaint. Apparently, the costume doesn’t extend past that, because his hair belongs on a drag act and his outfit could only be labelled “sleepwear.”

“Hey my starry eyed sister,” he says to Brit. “How’s about you up and help a motherfucker find some chill?”

It’s no wonder even the most brainless of the tourists are giving him a wide berth, but you can see Brit looking helpful and you know the only reason she hasn’t emptied her purse already is because she doesn’t realise “chill” means “drug money” rather than “directions to somewhere draughty.”

“Come on,” you say fast, pulling her away from the stoner manchild as quick as you can. “I thought you said you wanted pie.”

“Can’t I -?”

The crowd drowns out most of her question, but you shake your head anyway, and don’t let go of her again until he’s long out of sight, and you’re almost at the diner.

P&D’s – or the Prospit and Derse diner, if you’re going by the neon sign out front – is quite possibly the ugliest place you have ever been inside. The interior design was inspired by the unholy offspring of bling with goth chic; you’d say they’d picked up the wrong paint cans by accident if the servers weren’t dressed to match. But whether it’s a lame attempt at seventies retro or the work of a serial killer targeting colour theorists, it’s walking distance from Skaia and Brit likes the pie, so you wind up here more often than not.

When you walk inside, the place is half-empty, and there’s [jazz playing quietly in the background.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jgmEY41baKM) You know the waitress by sight, but that’s not so much a mark of loyalty as it is that she’s a walking epilepsy warning who laughs like a hyena doing body shots. But hey, other people stopped being your problem fifteen minutes ago, and you’re not about to make small talk.

“A cheeseburger and small fries, with Diet Coke and a lemonade, plus two slices of pie.”

She doesn’t bother writing it down, just walks to the kitchen window: “A four, a thirteen and two Crocker specials.”

“Coming right up.”

She heads to the counter to get your drinks, out of your eye line, and suddenly you don’t have an excuse to avoid Brittany’s gaze.

“What?” you ask, but you already know what she’ll say.

“You need to eat something,” she tells you. “You must be starving, and I don’t want Bono to write a song about you because I don’t think he has any eyes.”

“I’m having pie,” you say. If only because you’ve had that argument before and lost and today you can’t, today you’re too fucking tired.

“You can’t only eat pie. You know that. Remember that time I tried?”

You do, and you can half smile about it now even though it terrified you at the time to see her half-crazed on sugar and malnutrition.

“I’ll have some fries too.” Because that works, just like it always has. You order it every time, no matter what Brit says: a cheeseburger, small fries and two drinks, coming in just far enough under budget that you can afford pie twice a week if you turn the heating off early and rely on one another to stay warm.

Brit looks serious. You’ve never known how she can always tell what you’re thinking.

“Don’t worry, Santana. It will all work out.”

“I know it will.” You’ll make sure of it.

Your drinks arrive, and you intend to make yours last, but Brit catches your eye and says “race you!” and you wind up gulping it all down at once in the rush to victory. You’re gasping for breath, and Brit is giggling so hard she’s threatening to snort her lemonade, and as she starts telling you about Rachel’s first day and how she was wearing a sweater with a kitten on it and Brit had a cat once but she thought it might be psychic because it always knew when she was drinking milk, the pangs in your stomach start to fade.

The food only takes five minutes to arrive, which probably means they were expecting you. That thought turns your chest to granite, but the waitress just tells you the pie will be ten more minutes and goes back to gossiping with her colleague, an Asian girl throwing heavily eyelinered glances at the punk wannabe clearing tables. No-one is so much as looking in your direction, and you let your fists uncurl.

Brit wolfs down her burger like she hasn’t eaten in weeks. While you watch her, you toy with a French fry and wish you’d sacrificed your earlier victory for a few sips of Coke left over.

“Hey.” You didn’t notice Brit putting the burger down, but it’s on the plate and she’s reaching over to take the fry from you.

“Open up.” You sigh, but obey, and she places the fry in your mouth. You weren’t really intending to eat it, but you chew dutifully. She picks up another.

“Brit –”

She cuts you off with the second fry, and you swallow before continuing.

“What are you doing?”

“You need to eat something.” She keeps feeding them to you, one by one, almost too fast for you to eat.

“Slow down!” You pick one up yourself and place it to her lips, only to snatch your fingers away as her teeth snap around it. “Hey!”

Your complaint only results in another onslaught, and you have no choice left but to retaliate, and you’re having a food fight like you’re half your age, stuffing as many fries as you can in her mouth while trying to defend your own. It’s only when you manage to lick one of her fingers and make her squeal that you remember where you are. You’re in public. People can see you.

You look around quickly. The other customers are focussed on their own tables, and the waitresses are still in a gossipy huddle at the counter. No-one is looking your way. You tell yourself to relax, but the laughter has already died, and Brit is watching you with wide eyes.

“What’s gotten into you today?” you ask.

“I’m worried about you.”

Your heart cracks. “You don’t have to –”

“I want to!” She reaches across the table and takes your hand. You notice that all the fries are gone. “You’re always worrying about me instead of thinking about yourself. You need someone to take care of you sometimes.”

You give her hand a squeeze before letting go.

“You’d better hurry up with that burger. The pie must be nearly here.”

It’s not a lie; she’s still chewing the last bite when the waitress brings over two plates. You leave yours and wait for her to be done.

“Is it good?” she asks you.

“Try it.”

She does, eyes closed in reverence as she wraps her lips around the fork. She keeps them shut, closed off in her own blissful bubble of experience, and you can do nothing but stare at her until she opens her eyes and beams at you.

“It’s wonderful!”

Only then do you take a bite. It’s blueberry today, hot from the oven and topped with cream. Finally, the hunger inside you is gone, and all that’s left is you and the pie and Brittany with her lips stained mauve.

But it can’t last. You only get an hour’s break before you have to get back, and by the time the pie is finished you’re already late. You leave the money without bothering to ask for the bill – you know the exact amount – and head out the door. As you turn to check Brittany’s with you, she slips her hand into yours and whispers, “don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

The two of you rush back, half-running to make time, pulling each other through the thinning crowds, and all you can do is wish that you had five more minutes together – but you don’t, your break is already officially over, and you’re living on time you can’t afford to borrow.

You don’t get to kiss her more than once before you say goodbye.

You pass Jade at the counter; she smiles and asks, “nice break?” but you don’t bother to reply before ducking back to your locker for your uniform. When you drag the Skaia shirt over your head, you take a deep breath and tell yourself _only_ _four_ _more_ _hours_.

As you’re about to head back out, your phone buzzes in your pocket.

insightfulNonsequitur [IN] began texting salaciousSalome [SS]

IN: miss you already <3

A smile creeps onto your face, in that scarily genuine way your cheeks have of moving of their own accord. You have to take a moment to get it under control before reapplying your usual Barbie doll blank grin.

After all, there are customers waiting.


End file.
